15th October, 1937
427 Third Avenue SE, Cedar Rapids, Iowa
My Dearest David,
Your letter of the 8th arrived this morning, and I confess I have read it no fewer than six times, each perusal revealing fresh details that both delight and torment me in equal measure. How curious it is that words—mere ink upon paper—can simultaneously nourish and starve the heart. You write with such vivacity about your recent assignment covering the literary society’s autumn gathering in Montpelier, and whilst I should feel nothing but pride in your professional accomplishments, I find myself wrestling with emotions that I scarcely recognise as my own.
You mentioned Miss Clara Redmond with such evident admiration—her “brilliant commentary on Steinbeck’s social observations” and her “refreshingly unconventional perspectives on modern literature.” I have turned these phrases over in my mind like smooth stones, wondering at the inflection in your voice as you spoke them, imagining the animated conversation that must have followed. How effortlessly she must have moved through that gathering, her opinions welcomed and celebrated, her intellect a source of fascination rather than quiet resignation to society’s expectations.
Do you realise, darling David, what a luxury such recognition represents? Here in Cedar Rapids, my thoughts on literature—however carefully considered—are shared only with my journal and the autumn wind that rattles my bedroom window. When I attempted to discuss Steinbeck’s “Of Mice and Men” with my fellow teachers last month, Mrs. Albright quickly steered our conversation towards more “appropriate” topics—the approaching harvest dance and young Charlie Benton’s struggles with arithmetic. My curiosity about the world beyond Iowa’s borders is treated as a charming eccentricity, something to be gently discouraged rather than nurtured.
Yet Miss Redmond—forgive me, but I cannot seem to banish her from my thoughts—moves freely through intellectual circles that remain forever closed to women like myself. She attends university lectures, engages in spirited debates, and apparently commands your respect in ways that my quiet observations never could. I imagine her with dark hair swept fashionably back, her eyes bright with the confidence that comes from never having been told that certain subjects are “too complex for the feminine mind.” How I envy her that assurance, that ease with which she inhabits a world I can only glimpse through your letters.
Your description of her laughter—”like silver bells chiming across the Vermont hills”—has haunted me for days. Do you realise the poetry in such observations, David? Your words paint her with such tender brushstrokes that I cannot help but wonder whether your feelings extend beyond mere intellectual appreciation. When you write of my laughter, you describe it as “gentle” and “musical,” words that speak of affection but lack the vivid imagery you employed for her. Such comparisons wound more deeply than any deliberate slight could manage.
I find myself cataloguing my own limitations with merciless precision. My world consists of primer lessons and church socials, of conversations about weather patterns and children’s progress reports. Whilst you discuss philosophy with brilliant women who challenge your thinking, I struggle to find intellectual companionship amongst people who view books as mere decoration. My romantic nature, which you claim to cherish, feels increasingly naive when measured against Miss Redmond’s sophisticated discourse. How can my simple observations about frost patterns and autumn light compete with her analysis of social justice themes in contemporary literature?
The resentment that festers within me is not directed at you, my beloved, but at the circumstances that keep us apart—not merely by geography, but by the vast gulf between our daily experiences. You move through a world of professional recognition and intellectual stimulation, whilst I remain trapped within the narrow confines deemed appropriate for unmarried schoolteachers. Your open-minded nature is celebrated and rewarded; mine must be carefully concealed lest it threaten the delicate sensibilities of my community.
Sometimes, in the small hours before dawn, I imagine what life might offer if I possessed Miss Redmond’s freedoms. Would I, too, command your admiration through clever literary analysis? Would my ideas spark the kind of animated discussion that apparently fills your evenings with such satisfaction? Instead, I offer you gentle questions and romantic observations—valuable, perhaps, but hardly revolutionary. My curiosity burns as fiercely as any university graduate’s, yet it must be satisfied through borrowed books and stolen moments rather than public forums and scholarly debate.
Yet even as jealousy courses through my veins like some bitter tonic, I cannot forget the tenderness in your previous letters, the way you describe our correspondence as the highlight of your days. Your appreciation for my perspective, my gentle nature, my romantic sensibilities—these surely cannot be mere politeness. When you write of longing to share Vermont’s autumn splendour with someone who would truly see its beauty, I know you speak of me, not Miss Redmond with her brilliant commentaries.
Perhaps what torments me most is not the fear that you prefer her intellect to mine, but the recognition that circumstances have denied me the opportunity to develop mine as fully as hers has been developed. Had I been born into different circumstances, might I not have attended university, engaged in literary debates, commanded respect through scholarly achievement? Instead, I offer you the fruits of a mind that has grown in shadow rather than sunlight—beautiful, perhaps, but forever reaching toward illumination it cannot quite grasp.
Forgive this uncommon outpouring, my darling. Tomorrow I shall return to the gentle, quiet Elizabeth you have grown to love, but tonight I needed you to understand the complexity of emotions your letters inspire. My love for you remains constant, but it is seasoned now with yearning for a world where intellectual companionship between men and women might flourish without such barriers.
Until distance no longer separates us,
Your devoted (and thoroughly conflicted),
Elizabeth
P.S. I have been reading Edna St. Vincent Millay’s poetry collection this week—a small indulgence purchased with my meagre savings. Her verses about longing and intellectual hunger speak to emotions I struggle to articulate. Perhaps someday I might share such literary discoveries with more confidence, though for now they remain my private consolation.
Bob Lynn | © 2025 Vox Meditantis. All rights reserved.
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